


if you'll have me

by Iris_Duncan_72



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Apologies, Fix-It, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Good Friend Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, a fucking apology!!!!, anybody who mentions lifespan differences will be fed to the kikimora, because it's what Jaskier deserves!!!, no lore knowledge required, she deserves the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22852339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iris_Duncan_72/pseuds/Iris_Duncan_72
Summary: Good things come to those who wait, they say.  Well, whoever "they" are, Jaskier and his twenty two years of waiting would quite like to punch them in the throat for spouting such utter rubbish.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 24
Kudos: 562





	if you'll have me

_‘If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take_ you _off my hands!’_

Okay, that one hurt. Look, Jaskier knows how Geralt communicates, in that the witcher is _shit_ at it for several reasons, not least of which is that he has the emotional awareness of a rock. Jaskier _knows_ this. How could he not? He’s only been following Geralt for, y’know, twenty two years. If Geralt’s communication skills (and lack thereof) were a university, Jaskier would have a doctorate by now. So he knows that Geralt would sooner take an arrow to the throat than admit weakness or ask for help or, gods forbid, show any hint of care (except instinctively, which is really quite often because the pig-headed witcher is, at heart, _kind_ ).

Jaskier knows they’re friends, regardless of Geralt’s protests. He doesn’t actually need the witcher to verbally admit that at all, not when he confirms it with his actions every time he lets them set up camp a little earlier because Jaskier’s feet are _killing_ him, every time he drags Jaskier out of a rampaging monster’s path and doesn’t leave him tied to a tree for being an irrepressible nuisance. It’s fine. Everyone has their own love language and Geralt’s is that he does _not_ love language. Really, Jaskier doesn’t mind, he does enough talking for the both of them (three of them, including Roach).

It’s common knowledge, as far as Jaskier’s concerned, that Geralt tosses out casual insults like free candy because he reckons people will think him decent and approachable and maybe not a hair’s breadth from the beasts he slays if he doesn’t. Why else would he compare Jaskier’s singing to a pie with no filling and then very, very quietly the tunes to the bard’s songs when he thought no-one was listening? Huh? That’s right, there’s no conceivable answer.

Jaskier had a point here. Somewhere. Fuck.

_Yellow eyes glowing with anger, sharp teeth bared, cruel words._

Jaskier winces as the memory flashes through his mind for the tenth time in half as many minutes and nearly slips on a patch of mud in his distraction. He yelps, arms windmilling before he has the sense to hug his lute case protectively. He doesn’t fall, though, and he continues descending the mountain with slightly more caution, cursing the steady rain as he goes.

Anyway, the point is Geralt’s an insensitive ass and the only reason Jaskier isn’t sitting in a corner tearfully playing something suitably melancholic is because the water would ruin his lute in a heartbeat. Thus, he’s off to find the nearest _dry_ corner (preferably in a tavern) to do exactly that.

Six months pass in a blur of shitty ale and tearjerker ballads. Jaskier cries a bit (okay, a lot) and gets progressively more depressed as time slips by. He and Geralt haven’t _not_ run into each other for six months in, what, fifteen years? Sure, the bard doesn’t move from place to place quite as quickly as he once did, but this smacks entirely too much of _avoidance_.

The half year mark comes and goes, taking with it Jaskier’s final, foolish hope that maybe Geralt would do something very un-Geralt, like seek him out and apologise. As the witcher has clearly washed his hands of Jaskier for good, Jaskier resolves to do the same. No more grieving for their _two-decade_ relationship, no more pining like a heartbroken maiden from a tragedy. It’s time to pull himself together.

(He gets very drunk and cries a lot, but he also composes an entire ballad in under four hours and it’s not sad and hey, the people like it.)

Jaskier comes across Yennefer several times over the next few months, which is alarming in and of itself. Fortunately, she seems to have decided against doing anything terrible to him with her very impressive albeit very scary magic. This gradually evolves into a wary tolerance which _then_ becomes an astoundingly solid friendship. It turns out that a night spent bonding over your mutual shitty ex (lover for her, friend for him, no matter what Jaskier might wish) and draining three or four bottles of wine does _wonders_ for relationship development. Briefly, he wonders if things could’ve worked out better with him and Geralt if he’d managed to get the witcher drunk enough to forget his inability to talk about emotions, but then Jaskier remembers that Geralt can’t really get drunk (stupid mutagens) so that puts paid to that.

And... look, he’ll swear by every god that has ever existed that it was unintentional, but one morning Jaskier is unceremoniously hit with the realisation that he’s been zig-zagging his way across the Continent along a path conspicuously distant from anywhere a certain White Wolf is rumoured to be. Huh. That confirms the avoidance, then. Not that it matters – Geralt had half a year to track Jaskier down if he wanted and no doubt he could still do so. The thought of having an unexpected, accidental run-in with the witcher makes Jaskier feel like throwing up, so he decides it’s permissible to keep up this Geralt-dodging trend.

It’s impossible to avoid him completely, unfortunately. Jaskier doesn’t realise exactly how popular some of his songs have become until patrons in the third tavern in a row somehow recognise him as “the White Wolf’s bard”. The title incites a feral urge to bare his teeth and growl within him (wonder where he picked _that_ up, hmm), but an eager audience is better than an indifferent one, so Jaskier puts on a smile instead and strums the opening bars for Toss A Coin To Your Witcher.

Three days later, he catches word of a notice being put out for a witcher to deal with a wyvern and Jaskier doesn’t think twice before hitching a lift on the next cart out of town to literally anywhere but here.

Yennefer finds him in an inn a few weeks later. Jaskier’s finished his performance for the night and his coin purse is satisfyingly fat, so he’s quick to order a second tankard of beer as the crimson-clad sorceress swishes importantly across the room. She sits opposite him, purple eyes gleaming with a little too much intent.

‘Uh,’ Jaskier begins, raising a wary brow, ‘not that it isn’t lovely to see you again, Yennefer, but why are you looking at me like – _that?’_

Her red lips curve up into a smirk, but she stays quiet while the serving girl delivers the beer and departs. She takes a cautious sip, makes a noise of pleasant surprise, and gulps half the contents before smacking the tankard down again.

‘I come bearing news, songbird,’ Yennefer declares with menacing cheeriness.

_‘Uh.’_ Jaskier stares at her, trusting her less and less by the second. ‘Why am I suddenly fearing for my life?’

She folds her arms on the table, leans in close. ‘I ran into someone who’s looking for you. Three guesses who.’

Distantly, Jaskier hears the sound of his brain making an emergency exit out the back of his head, but he ignores it in favour of blinking like a stunned cow. ‘Excuse me?’ he squeaks, fingers clenching around his drink. _‘Excuse me?’_

Yennefer laughs breathily and sits back in her seat. ‘He had the temerity to ask if _I_ knew where you were.’ She raises a brow at the panicked noise that escapes him. ‘Do give me some credit, Jaskier, I didn’t tell him anything.’

The steel bands crushing Jaskier’s ribs loosen slightly and he breathes a hearty sigh of relief, before realising his reaction is being closely scrutinised. ‘What?’ he mutters defensively.

‘I thought perhaps a little bit of you might have been pleased,’ she replies. ‘He’s finally coming to _you._ More than he ever did for me.’ She wrinkles her nose in annoyance.

Jaskier slumps in his seat, feeling a mournful pout overtake his expression. ‘It’s nearly been a year,’ he says, just a bit dejected. ‘Gods knows why he’s after me. Probably has a contractual obligation with himself to insult me at least once every twelvemonth.’

‘Unlikely,’ Yennefer counters, lifting her flagon for another long drink. Licking her lips, she lowers the tankard and continues, ‘He looked far too miserable for that. If anything, my money’s on him feeling terribly guilty and finally working up the balls to apologise.’

With an inelegant snort, Jaskier finishes the dregs of his beer. ‘This _is_ Geralt of Rivia we’re talking about, right? I doubt a sword at his throat would force an apology past his lips.’

Oh, no, bad Jaskier, don’t think about Geralt’s lips, bad, _bad_ Jaskier.

Yennefer still looks far too amused. ‘Mmm, we’ll see. And no, not because I’m going to bring him to you. _If_ he wants to say sorry, he can bloody well work for it.’ Her violet gaze cools, expression becoming serious. ‘We both know Geralt’s a bit of a bastard at the best of times, but this has been a long while coming. He has plenty to apologise for, especially with you.’

Jaskier is startled by her words, her defensiveness on his behalf. ‘Well... you’re not wrong, I suppose.’

She smiles wryly. ‘Try not to sound so surprised, songbird.’

Conversation turns to lighter topics then and is accompanied by the warm glow of several more rounds of beer. Jaskier confesses that he’s thinking of buying a canine companion to keep him company on his travels, something large and handsome so he can cuddle it and have it act as a possible bandit deterrent. Yennefer pats his hand and recommends a dog breeder in a town not too far north of here, before oh-so-casually mentioning that she’s found herself a new beau, only this one’s a belle. Jaskier nearly sends both their drinks flying in his excitement and deems the woman a goddess if even mentioning her makes _Yennefer_ flustered.

All in all, it’s a night well spent.

Jaskier buys a shaggy white mountain dog named Buttercup from the breeder. The price is a little eye-watering, though it swiftly proves to be entirely worth it. Not only does Buttercup enjoy the affection Jaskier lavishes her with, but she does a wonderful job of intimidating would-be petty thieves. On top of that, she’s an excellent audience magnet, always sitting calmly at his feet when he plays in taverns. Jaskier _loves_ her.

The first breath of winter is in the air now; the temperatures drop, the weather worsens, and when a particularly bad storm rolls down from the mountains, Jaskier and Buttercup take refuge in a tiny village in the foothills. The single inn is fairly full, other travellers clearly with a similar mind to take shelter here. Naturally, rooms are going at a premium, but when the innkeeper spots Jaskier’s lute, she promises him free supper and ale if he takes everyone’s mind off things for a while.

Never one to say no to a lady in need, Jaskier agrees immediately, flashing her his most charming smile. She shoos him away exasperatedly, but her eyes twinkle and he counts that as a win.

The storm makes for quite a dramatic background when Jaskier sets his fingers to the strings that evening, all his bardic senses thrumming in glee. He knows how to create an atmosphere, how to wring a whole range of emotions from his listeners with nothing but his lute and voice, but if Nature wants to lend a helping hand, well, who is he to turn her down? Jaskier starts with a couple of exciting tales of adventure and destiny to get the blood pumping and by the time someone inevitably requests Toss A Coin, he’s in high enough spirits that he doesn’t care, the deep fissure in his heart covered with a thin layer of scar tissue.

It’s all going swimmingly well right up until the front door opens, letting in a flurry of icy wind and rain – and a smell like leather and linseed.

Jaskier would know that scent anywhere. He’d once described it as heroics and heartbreak and destiny (and yes, maybe a little onion too, but that bit was temporary).

He fumbles a chord as his heart leaps to his throat, but Jaskier is a professional and he recovers smoothly. He makes a show of walking around the small circle of space he’s been given, eyes flicking this way and that in a fruitless search for broad shoulders and silver hair. His breath trembles when he turns up empty, the whisper of scent already fading fast from the air. There’s a crunching noise somewhere in the back of his head, like the crack in his heart has deepened, but it doesn’t tear open and Jaskier sings through it, refusing to let this ruin his performance.

When he finishes up an hour or so later, pleading a tired throat and bowing graciously to his appreciative audience, Jaskier heads straight for the bar. Taking advantage of the innkeeper’s promise of free drink, he works his way through enough ale to be pleasantly sloshed in the vain hope that alcohol will drown out his feelings. Buttercup, sitting next to his stool, whines anxiously up at him and he pats her head, mumbling vague reassurances.

‘You’ve got the look of a man drinking his sorrows,’ the barman notes when Jaskier requests yet another tankard.

‘Well, I’m not about to let them drink _me,’_ Jaskier grumbles, glaring fuzzily.

Wisely, the man says nothing more and leaves the bard in his corner, nursing his drink.

_Leather and linseed overlaid with old sweat and horsehair._

Jaskier jerks his head up, eyes wide, and _what the fuck._ He glances back at his ale briefly. ‘This stuff must be stronger than I realised,’ he mutters, words slurring a little.

Geralt of Rivia stands before him, looking as stony and unimpressed as ever. ‘Why’s that?’

Startled that his hallucination is well-formed enough to speak, Jaskier blinks rapidly. ‘I didn’t think I was pissed enough to have my mind playing tricks on me yet.’

Familiar yellow eyes narrow as not-real-Geralt cocks his head with a customary grunt. It hasn’t been so long that Jaskier can’t tell this grunt to be one of confusion, a request for clarification.

‘You’re not real,’ he explains in a voice that suggest not-real-Geralt is an idiot for asking. _‘Obviously.’_

Buttercup whuffs and when Jaskier looks down, she’s staring at the definitely-not-actually-here-witcher.

‘Hmm. I must be _really_ hammered if I’m imagining Buttercup seeing you, too.’ He squints at not-real-Geralt, whose arms are now folded like a disappointed parent. A thought comes to him and he gulps. ‘Maybe you _are_ a real person and I’m just projecting Geralt’s likeness onto you.’

Jaskier reaches out a hand and tentatively pushes against a very solid, very real armoured chest. He swallows thickly.

‘Fuck. I’m – I’m sorry, whoever you are. You’re certainly real, unless my mind has properly snapped, but I can’t see you as anyone but that bloody witcher.’ He sniffs mightily, feeling a wave of weepy emotion rise within him. ‘You’d think I’d be over him by now, what with it having been a year since the bastard sent me away, but apparently once a fool, always a –’

‘Jaskier.’

The growl is so familiar, sounds so real, that Jaskier shivers. He closes his eyes, tears gathering.

‘Jaskier, I’m as real I can be. Roach would not be in the stables if I were not.’

He scoffs weakly, wrapping his arms around himself and pressing his calf into Buttercup’s side for support. ‘Oh yeah? Then why are you here? Why are you talking to me? I granted your one wish.’

Maybe-real-Geralt makes a pained noise. ‘I’ve – I’m here to apologise.’

Jaskier’s eyes fly open and he rounds on the witcher in disbelief. ‘Oh, right, sure, I _definitely_ believe you now! The _real_ Geralt wouldn’t be caught dead saying sorry to _me_. _’_

Probably-not-real-Geralt steps closer, crowding Jaskier into the corner, his fierce stare unwavering. ‘Then I must be dead because that is what I’m doing.’

Licking his lips nervously and abruptly feeling a bit more sober, Jaskier grips the edge of the counter tightly. ‘Go on, then,’ he mumbles, stomach churning in anticipation.

The witcher leans back slightly, silver hair glinting softly in the lantern-light. His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, jaw tensing and relaxing. This looks physically painful for him and Jaskier distantly wonders if he would actually be capable of conjuring up such a realistic image.

‘I’m sorry,’ maybe-real-Geralt grits out. ‘It was cruel of me to say those things to you on the mountain. I was angry at myself and I lashed out. I didn’t mean what I said and –’ he pauses, seeming to gentle slightly – ‘I’m sorry that I made you feel unimportant to me. You were – _are_ my friend, Jaskier.’

Jaskier stares, completely frozen. His mouth is dry, his fingertips numb, and his heart is trying to punch a hole through his ribs.

‘Please tell me this isn’t another dream,’ he whispers, a fine tremor rippling up his spine. He’s not sure he could bear it if he wakes up in his bed in a minute, even with Buttercup’s warm, comforting presence alongside him.

Geralt flinches minutely. ‘This isn’t a dream,’ he refutes roughly. ‘I’m here, Jaskier.’

A single sob escapes Jaskier’s lips before he claps his hands over his mouth. He blinks and two tears make a break for freedom, only for Jaskier to quickly wipe them away with his sleeve.

‘I’m going to hug you now,’ he chokes out in a rush, before launching himself at Geralt’s rock wall of a chest and flinging his arms around the witcher’s shoulders.

There’s a split second where Geralt doesn’t move and then his arms slowly come up around Jaskier’s back, holding the distraught bard close. Burying his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck, Jaskier bites his lip hard enough to bleed, strangling his sobs while the tears take advantage of his weakness to flow freely. He shudders as the scent of well-worn leather and linseed oil surrounds him.

‘I missed you,’ he mumbles, when he’s thoroughly soaked Geralt’s collar.

Pressing his head against Jaskier’s, Geralt squeezes him lightly before loosening his grip, drawing back a bit. ‘I missed you, too,’ he admits, the words clearly struggling to come out but his eyes wide with sincerity.

Settling back on his heels and reluctantly letting the witcher go, Jaskier sniffs and says sternly, ‘If you ever try something that stupid again, I will dip your hair in tar.’

Geralt goes still. ‘You – want to come with me again?’

Icy panic floods Jaskier’s veins. Had Geralt come _only_ to apologise? Did he still not want Jaskier around?

‘Uh – well, I mean – that is to say, um, if you’ll have me?’ He cringes at the mangled words.

A strange intensity comes into those yellow eyes and Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat.

‘I would,’ Geralt murmurs, his voice a gravelly rumble. He leans just a fraction closer and one gloved hand comes up to brush Jaskier’s fringe back. ‘I would have as much of yourself as you are willing to give me.’

_Um._ Hold the _fuck_ up. 

‘Did – did you just _proposition_ me?’ Jaskier squeaks, about ready to faint with all the shocks he’s had tonight.

‘I am your friend, Jaskier,’ Geralt says firmly. ‘A poor friend, indeed, but I will improve myself, I swear it. But if – _if_ you are willing, I would have you here as well.’ He taps two fingers lightly over Jaskier’s heart.

The burst of laughter that rips out of Jaskier is tinged with hysteria and he doesn’t hesitate to seize Geralt’s dumb, beautiful face in his hands. ‘I love you,’ he blurts, clumsy and urgent. ‘I’ve loved you for _years_ , Geralt, so –’

He’s cut off as Geralt closes the remaining inches between them and kisses him, strong and sure. Jaskier all but whimpers, sinking into the touch, and large hands grip his hips, holding him in place as Geralt nips his lower lip, licks into his mouth, devouring him none too gently. Jaskier grabs a fistful of silver hair, tugging on it like it’s his prize, and gives as good as he gets, humming low in his throat as he strokes his tongue along Geralt’s –

Buttercup barks, displeased with being summarily ignored, and Jaskier jumps back. Well, he breaks the kiss, but he can’t do much about the hands clamped on his hips. He laughs breathlessly, giddy with delight. A small, grudging smile curls up one corner of Geralt’s kiss-wet mouth, his eyes molten with so many emotions that Jaskier thinks he might _burst_.

‘Sorry, beautiful girl,’ he coos down to Buttercup, scratching behind one of her ears. ‘I think it’s time for bed, hmm? Let’s go up to our room.’

Geralt’s hands fall away, allowing the bard to pick up his lute case, Buttercup already on her feet and tail wagging. Jaskier raises a mischievous brow at the witcher, running his tongue over his lips provocatively, noting the way Geralt’s attention zooms in on his mouth.

‘Coming?’ he asks brightly.

Yellow eyes meet his and the reply is surprisingly earnest. ‘If you’ll have me.’

Jaskier swallows (that’s enough crying for one night, _thank you_ ) and holds out a hand for Geralt to take. ‘Always,’ he says firmly.

**Author's Note:**

> i have a lot of feelings for these boys okay. im gay, don't judge.


End file.
